Skin Deep
by Tashilover
Summary: John has a particular scar on his upper arm


**Warnings: **Child abuse and profanity

()

Sherlock could identify most of the scars that littered John's body. As his flatmate, it was near impossible for Sherlock not to catch the occasional shirtless glimpse of John.

There was the major scar: the bullet wound. That was the one John tried to hide the most, the one he felt most ashamed of. It only took one second glance at it for Sherlock to determine the angle of the sniper and what round was used.

Then there are the other, superficial scars. A faint line across John's cheek suggested a bad fall when he was young and gotten stitches. The scar on his torso was from an appendectomy. The one on his calf came from a dog bite.

Then there was the one scar on his upper right arm. It resulted from a bad burn, that much was clear, but the curved, broken _pattern _to it took Sherlock a few seconds longer to realize what it was.

It was from the heating coil of a stove.

"Who did that to you?"

John stiffened, casting one look over his shoulder. He quickly shrugged on a shirt before answering. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Your door was opened."

"Not the point, Sherlock."

"Was it your father?"

John shoved on a jumper. "It was an accident."

"You insult your own intelligence by insulting mine. We both know it wasn't an accident. If it was, the burn marks would've faded years ago. No, someone held you down long enough to-"

"Jesus-fucking-Christ, Sherlock!" John twisted around angrily. "Why do you bother asking if you already know the answer?"

Because, Sherlock found out, he didn't want to know the answer. It was easy for him to pull apart secrets from people, to figure out their closet skeletons. It wasn't only easy, it was _fun. _And for a while, figuring out John's scars were fun, too.

Until he noticed the broken spiral. There was a reason why Sherlock never took rape or child abuse cases. Firstly, most of those cases did not need his expertise and were of a waste of his time. The perpetrator was mostly always the father, the mother, the uncle, the brother, the boyfriend, the babysitter-

Secondly, Sherlock could admit there was a reasonable about of sin in such heinous crimes that not even he could walk away unaffected. Deducing exactly how often the step-father walked into his son's room was like ripping off a piece of his soul and throwing it to sharks.

So when Sherlock noticed the burn scar on John's arm, he could not stop the mental images from forming.

John was probably ten years old. Tall enough to reach over the stove. If he'd been shorter, he would have been picked up and the burn would be located elsewhere. It took time for abuse to climb to such extremity, and there was a reason why there were no other burns after.

At some point, after that burn, someone decided enough was enough and got John to safety.

Instead of answering John's question, Sherlock asked, "Was it your father?"

John turned his head, licking his lips to taper off the curse he was about to say. "My mother, actually."

Uncommon in such cases, though not unheard of. "Did your father stop it?"

John snorted bitterly. "Eventually. It wasn't until after the burn he realized she 'had gone too far.' I'm surprised you don't already know this."

"I know your father left your mother, but I was under the impression it was because of her drinking. I suspected abuse but with no police file to back up the claims…"

That got a smile out of John. "You're telling me you actually need evidence to deduce?"

Sherlock huffed. "I've always needed evidence."

John looked down at his arm. He touched the area of where his scar should be through his clothing, frowning. He jerked his head up. "There's a reason why you're bringing this up now. I'm sure you've seen the scars before."

"John-"

"Is that my phone over there?" John hissed, seeing his mobile sitting on the kitchen table. He pushed past Sherlock to grab it. He immediately checked his messages.

Sherlock watched as the voicemail told John the news. He wasn't sure how John would react to the news. The woman abused him and Harry for years, but she was still his mother. People reacted differently to the news of the death of their parent.

John slowly lowered his phone. He was so very deadly still, Sherlock could barely see him breathing.

And without another word, John passed Sherlock without looking at him in the eye, grabbed his coat and walked out of the flat.

()

John was out only for a few hours. When he got back, his eyes were pink (not red. That meant he'd stopped crying a while ago) and he looked exhausted. "Is that…?" John paused briefly at the kitchen door. "Did you buy Chinese?"

Sherlock had. He'd also cleared the table of his experiments, his beakers, his little collection of animal bones. Little white containers of mild temperature food now sat on the table, untouched. "I thought you might be hungry."

"You never buy Chinese."

"Your deduction skills are coming along nicely."

John giggled slightly. He shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

Sherlock rapped his finger noiselessly against one of the chairs. He wasn't prone to ticks but he could forgive himself this time. It was an awkward moment for everyone. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock really, really, didn't want to talk about it. He didn't know what to say, what to do, or know how John would react.

And yet at the same time, Sherlock knew this was something friends do. He couldn't run away just because he felt uncomfortable. This wasn't about him.

John shook his head. "I'm tired of it. Now that it's over, really over, I don't ever want to talk about it again."

Sherlock knew he shouldn't felt relieved, but he did. "Is there anything I can-"

"Yeah, Sherlock," John interrupted him snidely. "there is something. Stop acting like this. Do me a favor and… be you."

"All right," there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Sherlock eyed the food briefly and looked back at John. "I have a confession to make. I used your credit card to pay for this."

"Bloody hell!" John hissed, reaching for his wallet. "How did you-? When did you do that?"

"Last week."

"How could I have not noticed my credit card missing for a week?"

"Because you're an idiot."

()

A/N: I didn't know how to end this. Oh well.


End file.
